Endgame
by pingthing
Summary: The Winchester men have been playing this game of vengeance since Mary died. Now it's time for it to finally end.
1. Prologue

Summary: The Winchester men have been playing this game of vengeance since Mary died. Now it's time for it to finally end.

Warning: This is a **deathfic** and a very, very dark one at that. If you don't like that, don't continue on.

Authors: geminigrl11 and Faye Dartmouth, together known as pingthing

A/N: This is our first attempt at this cowriting thing, and regardless of how it's turned out, we've had a blast doing it. This fic was born out of discussions concerning appropriate ends for the Winchester's search for vengeance. As much as we wanted to give them all a happy ending, the more we saw that the way the family is set up, there is no way for them to live happily ever after. The Winchesters are a tragic lot, no matter how you slice it, and this is an outcome that we see as (sadly) plausible.

A/N 2: The first section here is a prologue, and it's not like most of the story...the boys will appear promptly in the next part and the action rises steadily from there.

Disclaimer: We can't claim any of this stuff...

**Endgame**

_**Prologue**_

It lived in shadows, crept in darkness. It slithered and shifted, edging in and out of blackness, dancing just beside the light, just beyond what most people could see. It found pleasure in their pain and had perfected a game of unwilling sacrifices. It was not human, but it chose the shape of a man, preferring that masculinity, that power.

He used to be less deliberate--attacking at random, inflicting torture at whim. It was so easy to make humans self-destruct. It was so easy to show them all the darkness they never knew existed, the evil that their nightmares couldn't even fathom--and then watch it destroy them, eat them alive. Darkness changed people, it skewed their perceptions. Some collapsed immediately, taking a gun to their heads before grief could truly settle in.

Others turned to alcohol, drugs, other opiates to bear the brunt of the shock. There was a certain indulgence in watching that inept attempt to forget. Those were the kind that believed in denial, who clung to the hope that maybe it had been a dream, that maybe they were crazy, deluded. It was easier to be drunk than to be forever marred by darkness.

He found those victims less satisfying. It was too quick, too easy. They lacked the will to make the fight worthwhile.

As time passed, he found he enjoyed the hunt even more than the kill. He preferred to stalk his prey, judging them, anticipating their response. He prided himself on his ability to pick those who would not crumble under the pressure, whose pride or stubbornness would keep them in the game longer, unwilling to admit their inevitable defeat.

Their denial would ultimately cost them in the end, usually everything. There was always pain and suffering, and it was widespread, because he always picked the ones with families, the ones with something left to lose.

He found a kindred spirit in fire. It was darkness and light all it once. It sparked and devoured. It ate away slowly, singeing the senses while the brain was still in tact. It prolonged the suffering.

He couldn't remember when he first thought to put them on the ceiling, to skewer them there alive and terrified. He relished the suspense of it, the symbolism.

He always picked families and he had a preference for little boys. He liked looking down at their innocence, that implicit trust and joy that they possessed. He chose them early, watching as they were born, as they took their first breaths of precious life. He watched them flourish in subterfuge, their prosperity the ultimate lie of safety and security.

The chosen ones always knew him. He liked the way they could see him over their parents' shoulders, the way he could make them coo when he smiled his long smile at them. That familiarity was what made them not cry when he stood over them, what made them so calm when he made his move.

It was always at night, always in the nursery. He would wake the child, stare at him, show himself to him.

It didn't matter who found him next--it was usually the mother--but they were to be the first sacrifice, the play to set the game in motion.

The game was so predictable. A lifetime of devastation, with pain to spare. He reveled in that pain.

But this time had been different. It had been the same setup, the same idea, but the response had been nothing he had seen before. No one had ever thrown themselves back at him so vehemently. This one didn't deny his existence, he sought it. In his grief, this one forgot about life, and instead dedicated himself to vengeance.

That intrigued him, and he played along. He put obstacles in his course, led evil to him to see what he could vanquish and how much he could fight. This one was impressive; his skills grew exponentially.

This one believed he was making a difference, that he was making progress. This one didn't know that he still watched him as he fought, fascinated by the futility of his actions. That so much of the evil was nothing more than little games set up to watch him run around like a mouse in a maze. This one didn't know that a force beyond his control made sure that he lived to fight another day. This one was alive by his grace.

They always ruined their children, in one way or another. The image of death seared into their minds changed them. But this one condemned his sons to a fate he had never imagined. This one had been doomed from the beginning, just like the rest, but this one was one of the only ones to ever doom his sons to a far worser fate than even he himself could have envisioned.

He sighed. This one had gone on longer than most, longer than he had intended. They were making connections, drawing lines he had never anticipated.

They were primed now, all of them. Primed and ready. It had gone on long enough. It was time.

He smiled, nodding slowly. Yes, it was time.

And all he would have to do was sit back and watch.


	2. Chapter 1

A/N: All warnings, disclaimers, etc. in the prologue.

**Endgame**

_**Chapter 1**_

"Well, that was - "

It was rare that Dean was at a loss for words, but it had been a very unusual day--even for them. They had been working a poltergeist, supposedly haunting an old barn on an elderly couple's property. However, as they delved into their research, the strange happenings had turned out to be something far different than they had anticipated. In all their years of hunting they had never run across such an unusually intelligent, exceptionally deceptive . . . goat. A goat that could open doors, push furniture, eat holes in wood . . .

"Yeah." Apparently, Sam agreed.

Dean's eyes were on the road, but his thoughts were on what they had left behind, and the corners of his mouth turned up. He shook his head ruefully.

"Well," Sam cleared his throat. "At least now you know that if this whole ghostbusting thing doesn't work out, you could always have a backup career as a pet detective."

"I wasn't the one the damn thing bonded with, Sammy. I mean, really, I think you could have at least bought it dinner."

That brought a laugh, and it made Dean grin to hear it. Sam was so damned serious most of the time. And, yes, he had his reasons - good reasons - but it could wear, after a while. On both of them.

Sam sighed and leaned his head back, a smile still ghosting at his lips. "So, where to next?"

"Well, I was thinking - "

"Always a dangerous proposition."

Dean paused a moment to glare, more out of habit than genuine annoyance. "I was thinking that we should take a day off."

Sam waited for a beat. "You serious?"

"Why not? I mean, it's a two-day drive to Cherokee, and all we're really doing is following up on one of Dad's notes. And depending on what we find when we get there, this may be our last break for a while."

"You don't have to convince me." A whole day off the road - a whole day NOT folding his body into the cramped front seat of the Impala - to Sam, sounded like heaven. "So, what should we do?"

"You're kidding, right?" When Sam just looked at him, eyebrows raised expectantly, Dean shook his head. "He's not kidding. Are you sure we're related?"

Sam rolled his eyes.

Dean ignored it. "Sleep in, man. Sleep in. Take an hour-long shower. Sleep some more. Eat a meal at some place that doesn't have a drive-through. Can your freaky little brain handle this or is it too normal for you?"

"I think I can handle it." Sam returned dryly, but his enthusiasm was palpable. "Drive on, Jeeves." He waved a hand in the general direction of the road, ignoring Dean's snort of derision.

They drove on in companionable silence.

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The red-gold of the late afternoon sun seeped through the gauzy motel curtains, drawing lazy trails of light across the room. They had followed Dean's day-off plan, detail for detail, and were now in bed for the second time that day. Dean was sleeping soundly under the covers, his head turned away from the light that crept across his face.

Sam hadn't slept as much as either brother had hoped. But the nightmares had been more manageable than on most nights, and now he was drifting, wandering in the no-man's-land between awake and asleep where his body could simply relax.

The phone's ring took them both by surprise. Sam grabbed it first, while Dean hazily roused himself. "Hello?"

There was a pause, a brief moment of static on the other end. "Sam, is your brother there? I need to talk to him."

To say that Sam was shocked to hear his father on the other end of the line would have been an understatement. John had only called once - _once _- in all these months, and had never responded to any of the messages the boys left for him. Not even when Dean was dying.

To say that Sam was hurt that his father had had no words for him at all, had not even said hello, but instead only asked for his brother, would have been even more of an understatement. Wordlessly, he handed the phone to Dean, too shocked and hurt to protest.

His voice empty and monotone, he said, "It's Dad." He drew his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them and letting his head rest on his knee.

Surprise evident, Dean stared at his brother as his father started speaking.

As a litany of tasks was relayed, Dean numbly nodded. "Yes, sir. Yes, sir. Yeah, we can be there in less then twelve hours . . . OK . . . We will . . . Yes, sir."

Sam listened to his brother's short replies and affirmations. The entire conversation was over in less than a minute.

As soon as Dean turned the phone off, he rose and reached for his duffel, starting to throw things inside.

"What did he want?"

Dean stilled, gazing blankly at the wall for a moment before turning to face his brother. "He's found it. The thing that killed Mom." Dean drew an unsteady breath. "He needs our help to take care of it."

A multitude of emotions played over Sam's face. He wanted to speak, to say something, but nothing would come.

Dean watched, recognizing them as the same ones he was feeling. He started to say something, but nothing came to mind except, "Get moving. I told him we'd be there by morning."

But Sam couldn't move. The words swirled around him. _He's found it_. _The thing that killed Mom. The thing that killed - _

"Come on, Sam, let's go!"

Startled from the reverie, Sam stood and moved to help his brother.


	3. Chapter 2

A/N: All disclaimers, warnings, etc. posted in prologue. Thanks to all those who reviewed!

_**Chapter 2**_

Dean drove without speaking, his eyes fixed solely on the road. In the passenger's seat, Sam sat, staring into the darkness. At first, Sam had probed for details, but his questions were greeted with monosyllabic replies. He had tried to sleep, but it was elusive.

They were going to find it--the thing they'd been searching for. He'd always expected to feel more excitement, more anticipation--something. But he couldn't shake the growing uneasiness in the pit of his stomach.

He glanced at his brother. Dean showed nothing in his expression. He had reverted to soldier mode. Sam knew a conversation at this point would be futile.

After another few miles of growing angst, though, he could not keep himself from asking, "Dean, are you sure about this?"

"What do you mean, sure?"

"About just picking up and going to Dad without any information, without any details?"

The question seemed to annoy Dean. "Of course I'm sure. You're sure too."

"It's just--"

"Just what?"

In Dean's clipped reply, Sam could hear echoes of their father. Sam sighed. "I mean, after all this time, after all the times we've tried to find him, after all his warnings, he just up and calls us and tells us he's found it?"

"Sure, he's been looking for it and just waiting for the right time to tell us."

Sam shook his head uncertainly. "But he didn't tell you anything else? Just that he's found it and he needs to see us? I mean, come on, man, doesn't that seem just a little weird to you?"

"Look, Sam, it's Dad. You know he's not exactly a detail person. If he says he's found it, he has. He'll tell us what we need to know."

Sam clenched his teeth. _Yeah, just like at the asylum_. "Don't you think we should be just a little suspicious? He hasn't returned any of our phone calls--not even when you were dying, Dean."

The statement carried an unexpected emotional weight, but Dean refused to acknowledge the hint of betrayal in Sam's voice

Sam persisted. "He didn't leave as much as a voicemail to see if you were okay. The last time he talked to us he told us to stay as far away as possible."

"I thought you wanted to find him, find the thing that killed Mom, that killed Jessica."

"I do--"

"Then stop whining. Dad's found it. We're going to help him kill it," Dean said, looking at his brother. "We're finally going to kill this thing and get back at it for everything it's done to us."

Dean turned his gaze back to the road and Sam stared at his brother a minute longer, hoping that he was right. Reluctantly, Sam surrendered his argument and stared back out into the passing night.

The rest of the ride passed in silence. Neither of the boys were willing to give voice to their feelings. Dean had learned to suppress his too long ago to change now. And Sam . . . Sam was overwhelmed. His doubts about their destination grew with every passing mile. A sick feeling of dread that he couldn't shake uncoiled in his chest.

He couldn't deny that his initial misgivings stemmed from his father's outright ignoring him. There were plenty of issues hanging between them, years of resentment and miscommunication, scars that hadn't healed. But the last time they had spoken, John had sounded . . . well, for the first time in years, Sam had heard love in his voice. He had felt his father reaching out across the airwaves to try to console him, to protect him.

_I heard about what happened to your girlfriend. I'm sorry, son. I would have given anything to protect you from that. _The words had comforted Sam more than he would have thought possible, even though in almost the next breath, their father had ordered them to stay away.

Yet, this time, John had not even wanted to speak to him. _Why wouldn't he talk to me? Why couldn't he tell me? _The questions danced through Sam's brain with no good answer.

For the first time since they had started occurring, Sam wished for a vision. Dean would believe him then. The visions scared Dean almost as much as they scared Sam. Experience had taught them both to trust Sam's second sight, and if what he could see steered them away from where their father was directing, Sam was certain - well, pretty sure, anyway - that Dean would at least consider a backup plan.

But there was nothing. All Sam could see was the blackness of the road beneath them and the fields that spanned the horizon, haloed by the pale glow of the Impala's headlights. He kept his fears to himself. He still felt like he owed Dean so much, like he had so much to prove. Sam wasn't about to bail on him now, not when they were finally so close to laying their family demons to rest. He knew that kind of a breach would be irreparable. Even more, he wouldn't even entertain the thought of letting Dean go on alone. Whatever was coming, however wrong it might be, they would face it together.

As dawn finally crept over the hood of the car, rolling in through the dewy windows, Sam broke the silence. "So, where're we headed?"

"There's a house on Route 12 East. We should see a sign in the next twenty miles or so. Dad'll meet us there."

"Did he say exactly what he wanted us to do?"

"He'll tell us everything when we get there."

Sam nodded and turned back to the window, nervously tapping a fist against his thigh.

"Listen, Sam, I . . ." Dean stopped, seeming to search for the right words. "We've been waiting a long time for this. It's our chance to . . . make up for a lot of things."

Both boys fell silent. Neither looked at the other, but both felt the intensity of the moment.

Dean drew a breath and started again. "Dad knows what he's doing. He's been hunting this your entire life, you know? It's all he's done."

Sam felt Dean watching him now and brought his head up to meet Dean's gaze.

"You've got to trust him." Dean's need was a palpable thing. _Please, be on board with this, Sammy. Please, don't fight him this time. We need to be united. _

Slowly, Sam nodded. "I do." And if he didn't quite believe his own words, Dean's obvious relief made up for it. At this moment, nothing else mattered but Dean's confidence in him. He would not let his brother down again.

The sign for Route 12 appeared at last, and Dean turned onto the roughly paved county road.

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John waited.

He had been waiting for so long now, 23 long years of searching, hunting, killing, and cursing. But that time seemed like nothing to the long night that had slowly stretched by him while he waited for his sons.

He had known they would come; he had known Dean would drop everything and come straight to him. He had counted on that.

Sam would be suspicious--he counted on that too. He had regretted that Sam answered the phone. When he heard Sam's voice, the voice of his youngest son, his baby, he'd almost hung up right there and called the whole thing off.

There was such undeterred hope in Sam's voice. Sam had always been their reason to hope, their source of it. He was the one thing in life that seemed innocent enough to protect.

_Had _seemed innocent enough to protect. If he had only seen it then.

He had spent the night perched on an old dining room chair. He had spent the hours thinking and rethinking, checking and double-checking. All the years of his quest had brought him to this point. Every lead he followed brought him back to same reality. Now was the time to enact the endgame. Everything had to be in place. Everything had to be ready. There was no room for mistakes.

The falling of the darkness had shaken his resolve. The shadows taunted him. The whispering of the wind on the old house aroused the doubts in the back of his mind. He turned back to his research, trying to bolster his wavering convictions.

He stared at the pages before him. The diagrams, clippings, notes and speculations blurred together until only one word was visible. It was a word that drove the breath from his lungs and sparked tears in unblinking eyes. He felt his heart hammering in his chest, its pounding so forceful that he feared it might burst.

In some ways, he wished it would.

He reached out with unsteady fingers, tracing the too-familiar letters and remembering when he had taught another to do the same.

_"This is you, son." He held the boy's tiny hand in his own, gripping the pointer finger like a pen. _

_"We start here. S - see? Like a snake." He slid the boy's finger slowly over the curves. "Then A. One side, two sides, and a line to hold them together." _

_"You, me, Dean!" _

_He said it so joyfully, so triumphantly, that John found himself matching the boy's broad grin. "Very good. You're a smart boy, Sammy. Now, this last letter is M. Long, short, short, long. Just like that." _

_"S. A. M. Sam!" The boy shouted, still gleeful. _

_"That's right. My little Sam." John squeezed his youngest to him briefly before the child demanded that they do it again, this time with his hand guiding his father's. _

_My Sam. _

The word had been born from so much love then, a love that had fed John, warmed him, given him purpose.

But now . . .

_S. A. M. _

Now the letters mocked him.

Sam, the child John and Dean had raised and protected, despite the odds. Sam, the innocent who had been their only light in the darkness after Mary was taken. Sam, the reluctant warrior who had only followed them so far and then abandoned them.

_Maybe I should have seen it then. _

But John saw it now, spelled out so clearly after all this time. As clear as the name in blood red ink before him. Sam was the source, the reason, the evil.

And there was only one thing that could be done with evil. He had to kill it.

_But can I kill my own son? _

He remembered the day Sam was born. Mary's labor had been long and arduous, and she was tired. When the doctor finally told her to push, her energy was nearly spent. But she grabbed John's hand, held it, and looked at him in the eye. _"This is it, John," _she said. _"We're going to be a family--me, you, Dean, and this baby. A perfect family." _

He had cried that day, and he cried now.

_What would Mary say? _

Mary would never say anything because Mary was dead, burned alive above his head, above the crib of that child she cherished so dearly. She had never known, and part of him was grateful, relieved that she never realized how tainted her perfect family was.

John hadn't saved Mary then, but he would avenge her now. That had been his only quest for 23 years and as it approached its fruition, nothing could stop him. How many years had he wasted in the pursuit, when the answer was right under his own nose?

He had exhausted all other possibilities, all other explanations. Every lead took him nowhere, just circled back to the one, undeniable truth. All that was left was_ Sam. _Everything started with Sam; it had to end with him too. He had to kill Sam.

Sam destroyed everyone who loved him. He had destroyed Mary. He had destroyed his girlfriend. Somehow John knew that Dean would be next, and that was a loss he could not afford to bear.

No, it was time for this to end. It had to end; 23 years was too long for evil to be free.

When he saw the headlights flash across the dingy windows and through the stained curtains, he was ready.


	4. Chapter 3

A/N: Thanks to all who have reviewed! Notes, disclaimers, etc. posted in the prologue!

_**Chapter 3**_

Dean brought the car to a stop, and they stepped out onto the gravel driveway. Unconsciously, the boys mirrored each other, shoulders squared and faces lined with resolve as they exited the car and cautiously approached the house. Dean took point, as always, with Sam just a step behind. Their fists were clenched, jaws too, and their backs unnaturally straight. This was it: the culmination of their years of training and fighting and searching. Today, the last piece of the puzzle dropped into place. Today, they would face the first evil. Today, they would avenge Mary and Jess' deaths.

The first step, though, was entering the house and facing their father. Sam swallowed in apprehension, uncertain what his reception would be. Would his father embrace him or push him away? Would he be treated as a son or simply the third piece of the Winchester triangle, no more and no less than a hunter? Would there be forgiveness for leaving the family and denying his birthright? The questions churned in his mind.

For Dean, the thought process was simpler. Dad had left him (_hell, didn't everyone, sooner or later_?) but John had had his reasons, and Dean trusted him implicitly. And that trust had paid off. John had managed to zero in on the exact prey they were seeking. If it had been a little hard for Dean to accept in the beginning - not knowing where John was or why he'd left - it was understandable now. _The ends justify the means_. John had raised him well, the loyal soldier, through and through.

John opened the door before Dean put his hand on the knob, pulling it wide as he welcomed his sons. There were no hugs, no words of pride or apology. He simply said their names. "Dean. Sam. You made good time. Come in."

The room was sparse and had an air of long disuse. Dust coated the floorboards and obscured the windows. There was a single table, scattered with notes, and a few folding chairs. John gestured vaguely to the chairs and all three men sat, sons facing their father. He looked at the floor for a long moment before speaking. Sam could feel the knot of tension in his chest tighten. Even Dean seemed anxious. But they waited, motionless, for their father to lead.

"Here's the plan." With those three words, John side-stepped every painful issue that had been stewing in the months since Dean had seen him and the years since Sam had had him in his life.

John tread carefully, walking a fine edge between deceit and honesty, knowing he would have to play both sides in order for this to work. "Sam is the focal point."

Sam felt the blood drain from his face and numbness spread through his veins. His greatest fear, realized in an instant and revealed by the one person from whom it would hurt the most. Distantly, he heard Dean's objection and challenge - _What are you talking about? That's not possible! _- but to him, it confirmed his worst nightmares. His vision dimmed for a moment, his hearing faded, and then John was speaking again.

"Enough, Dean! Hear me out. I've researched this in any every way I could, followed every lead. This demon, it's attracted to extrasensory power. Psychic abilities. Telekinesis."

He paused, composing himself and steeling his resolve. "It's not Sam's fault." His heart ached with those words, nearly breaking him as he looked into the eyes of his oldest son, knowing they were lies . . .

John couldn't bring himself to look at Sam, though. He wasn't quite strong enough for that. "But he's the catalyst. I finally figured that out. Every time this demon has struck, that has been the harbinger."

"So what does that mean?" Dean's posture was still defensive, and he'd brought his chair closer to Sam's, as though to protect him from their father's words.

"We'll use him as bait."

"What? NO!"

For the first time - possibly ever - Sam's jaw dropped in shock as he watched his brother openly defy their father. Dean stood, knocking his chair back in his haste, denial written into the rigid lines of his body.

John, for his part, looked unfazed. The anger Sam expected wasn't there. He looked . . . resigned. He'd obviously expected Dean's reaction. "It's the only way. Nothing else will bring it into the open. We need him."

"No. No way! It's too dangerous!"

"Now, Dean you listen to - "

"It's okay." Sam's quiet determination silenced the other two voices instantly. "I'll do it."

He brought a hand up as Dean started to protest. "Dean, you said it yourself. Dad knows what he's doing. If this is the only way, then it's the only way. We have to do this."

Dean just looked at him, feeling a helplessness and confusion that he didn't know how to rectify. He hadn't expected things to go like this, hadn't expected John's plan to be one that put Sam in immediate danger. Their job was to protect Sam, not expose him, certainly not to use him as -_ I will not call him bait! _

"I need to do this, Dean. For Mom. For Jess. For us." The last word was so quiet that it was practically a whisper. "It'll be alright," he swung his head back to his father, "won't it, Dad?"

"It will be if we follow the plan." John leveled his gaze at Dean, willing his son to once again take up the mantle of soldier.

Dean struggled for a moment, for the first time unsure. But when in doubt, he could only fall back on instinct. In this case, it said to trust his father, and that, if John had a plan, it must be the right one. Slowly, he sat down again, ready to hear the rest of what John had to say. At the same time, though, he moved his chair directly next to his brother's, now separated from Sam by the merest of inches.

John read the nonverbal cue as he was meant to, and for him, another aspect of the plan started to fall into place. He'd envisioned two scenarios for Dean, and now it was looking like one was far more likely than the other.

Dean sat squarely now, ready for direction. "So what are we looking at?"

John almost smiled at his son's ability to focus. "It's a demon, but not one that's bound to human flesh. It can move in and out of anything and everything it pleases. It's hard to track down--it never stays in one place long. But it's drawn to power - power like Sam's. I've searched long and hard for the rite to banish it, and I think I've found it."

John's lie was elaborate, too detailed to be fabricated. His heart pounded as he gauged his sons for their reaction.

Dean looked pensive. There were no words to describe the mix of emotions on Sam's face.

"What do we do?" Dean asked, meeting his father's eyes with resolve.

"We have to make it believe Sam is our sacrifice--that we're giving it what it craves. With the right set up, it won't be able to resist such an opportunity."

"And what is the set up?" Dean was still doing all the talking, while Sam just listened, absorbing the information.

"We'll have to prepare the room. I have the steps laid out." John waved at some of the papers scattered on the table. "And Sam has to be alone."

"We can't just leave him alone in a room--"

"It's the only way to draw it out." John's voice was sharp. He took a deep breath. Dean was already unhappy with the plan, and John knew the next detail could send his oldest son into rebellion.

"And Sam must be bound--completely vulnerable."

Dean opened his mouth to protest. It was Sam who cut him off. "And where will you be?"

John glanced at Sam, unable to make eye contact. "Dean and I will be on the other side of the house. As soon as it shows up, we'll be there."

Dean was clearly uneasy, but he was still listening. "How do we kill it?"

"I've found an exorcism I think will work."

Dean shook his head slowly, chewing on his lip.

John continued. "There are a lot of details to take place. We have to gather supplies, make preparations. It has to be tonight."

Dean's eyes trained on his father with vigor. "Why tonight?"

"Timing is everything," John said. He turned his eyes to Sam with a piercing stare. "If it catches on to our ruse, we'll all be lost."

"Then we better get to work."

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John's notes were detailed and specific. Together, the three men scattered the herbs and talismans in patterns throughout the room. There was blood from an animal sacrifice that was placed in three shallow bowls. The bowls formed a circle around the chair where Sam would be bound.

John sent Dean to get the candles, steeling himself for a last conversation with Sam.

The boy knelt on the floor, repositioning one of the bowls so that it was precisely aligned with the others.

"Are you ready for this, Sam?"

John managed not to flinch as he felt his youngest son's steady gaze. For a moment, he was sure that Sam had seen through him - his precognitive abilities telling him what was to come and giving him time to turn the tables on his father. But all John saw was the absolute trust that Sam had exhibited earlier in the day.

"Yeah, I'm ready."

John purposefully ignored the raw need he saw in Sam's eyes. He had no words to comfort his son. There were no fatherly feelings left in him. All he saw was the demon that had destroyed his family. He turned away, returning to their preparations.

"Dad?"

He stilled, this time not facing his son.

"I just wanted to say that I - I'm sorry. For everything."

He held his breath. _Is Sam admitting - ?_ But Sam continued before he could finish the thought.

"For leaving and for being so . . . angry. All those years. I understand now, I really do. And I'm glad this will finally be over."

John squeezed his eyes shut, squelching a sudden and overwhelming feeling of regret. This didn't change anything. There was no turning back.

John spoke slowly, controlled. "I'm glad, too, Sam."

They continued the rest of their preparations in silence.


	5. Chapter 4

A/N: Thanks so much to those who have reviewed! This is approaching its end (one chapter after this one) and the whole warning about character death applies strongly to this chapter. All other comments and disclaimers posted in the first part.

_**Chapter 4**_

Dean hovered over Sam, his hands uncharacteristically fumbling as he tied his brother's hands together behind the chair.

"Make sure they're tight," John ordered. "It needs to believe in Sam's vulnerability in order to risk showing itself."

Dean pulled the bindings tighter; Sam stifled a grimace as the rope cut into his wrists.

"There," Dean said, examining his handiwork with satisfaction. "Should be no way to get out those puppies."

Sam tested them, trying to jerk and wriggle his hands. "Yeah, they're good," he said. "I'll have no feeling in my hands after five minutes, but they're good."

"I can loosen them some," Dean offered, studying his brother in the dimly lit room. They had carefully lit all the candles around the edges of the room before situating Sam in the center, bound to the chair.

"No," Sam replied quickly with a shake of his head. "They have to be tight."

There was a pause. "Man, I hate leaving you like this."

Sam grinned. "You worried about me?"

"Nah, I just don't want to have to save your ass again."

"If I remember correctly, I've been the one rescuing you lately. Remember the scarecrow? And the psycho hick hunters?"

"Yeah, whatever, dude. Just trying to make you feel useful."

The joke settled uneasily into the empty room.

Dean looked nervously at his brother. "You sure about this, Sammy?"

Sam chewed his lower lip before giving a half-smile. "Yeah," he said. "This has to end, Dean. It will destroy us all if we don't."

Dean tried to look as resolute as Sam sounded. "Yeah, I know. It's just--I mean--"

Dean's attempts to express concern were pathetic, and his awkwardness amused his brother. The humor was a dark, though, and the Sam relished the sentiment that Dean could not quite bring himself to give voice to. "It's going to be okay. I mean, you're going to be on the other side of the house--you and Dad. With the two of you, how could anything possibly happen to me?"

Dean let out a nervous laugh, but couldn't look at his brother. "Right."

John's voice came from the hallway. "Dean, you done in there?"

"Yeah," Dean called, steeling his voice again. Then he looked back at Sam. "I guess this is it."

"Guess so."

"If you need anything, if you feel like something's not right, you yell, okay?" Dean's face was serious. "And I will get you out of here."

The certainty in his brother's voice eased Sam's discomfort. "Thanks."

"Okay, then," Dean said, turning to leave.

"Hey, Dean."

"Yeah?"

"If something goes wrong--"

Dean shook his head. "Don't talk like that, Sammy."

"It's just--"

"Sammy."

"I just want you to know that it was worth it. Everything." The words came out in a rush. Sam needed his brother to hear them, even if Dean didn't want to. "I know I gave you a lot of hell growing up, but I never regretted any of this, Dean." Sam swallowed back an unexpected hitch of tears. "These last few months with you--they've been the best time of my life."

Dean felt the betraying sting behind his eyes and he forced a laugh. "Gonna choke on feel-good here, then who's going to save you, little brother?"

Sam laughed weakly. "Sorry."

"Well, not long now," Dean raised his chin, willing stoicism for them both. "We'll be right here. But watch out, ok, Sammy?"

"You, too."

Dean gave his brother one last look, taking in the ropes that were bound tightly around his chest, his legs, his arms. Sam looked so alone, so young on that chair. The room was not large, but it seemed too big, too open. A shudder traced up his spine.

"Dean!"

His father's voice broke his reverie. Turning away from Sam, he exited the room, willing away his anxieties and trusting in his father's plans.

Sam watched Dean go, feeling his absence like a hole in his stomach. He shifted uneasily in the chair, wishing suddenly that they had at least picked one with padding, one that wouldn't make his butt go numb so quickly.

Then again, part of him wished his entire body were numb so he couldn't feel that fear and anticipation that threatened to overwhelm him.

He didn't like being the bait. Not that he didn't want to do his part, but he hated feeling so useless, so immobile. The vulnerability was unsettling. And the feeling that something was wrong with this - majorly wrong - had not left him.

He twisted his hands, instinctively pulling against the binds until he reminded himself that the goal here was _not _to escape. His only task was the hardest one of all - to wait. He took a deep breath and tried to clear his mind. He had to be ready for what was coming, ready to do his part. He was not going to bail on his family this time.

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Dean followed his father to the other room, images of Sam flooding his mind. He didn't doubt his father, but damn, it had it been hard to leave Sam alone - alone and exposed. It went against every instinct he had. And not being able to see Sam, knowing that he would have to wait, a whole house away from him while they performed the ancient ritual that would draw the demon to his brother . . .

It took every ounce of resolve he had to not turn around right then and end this.

His father must have sensed his turmoil. Before they reached the other room, Dean felt a firm hand on his shoulder. His father turned him so that they were eye to eye.

"Before we do this, I need to know. I need to know if you'll follow me no matter what."

Dean looked confused. "What do you mean? Dad, you know I'd follow you anywhere."

"When push comes to shove, will you be by my side?"

"Of course, I--"

"Against anything." John's voice was low, his stare deadly.

Dean's breathing quickened. His father was focused and strict, but he had never seen him quite so dark, so terrifyingly determined. "What do you mean?"

"If you had to choose, Dean--me or Sam--who would it be?"

The question cut at Dean, touched him deep within the darkest places of his mind. The confusion on his face was laced with fear, laced with bated anger. "Dad?"

A sad look spread across John's face. Dean's expression was the only answer he needed. "That's what I thought," he said with a sad shake of his head. "I'm sorry, Dean."

Before Dean could react, his father swung his gun against his head. He tried to move, but he wasn't fast enough.

John stared down at his son, the rifle in his hand now stained with his blood. "I'm doing this for you."

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Sam curled and flexed his hands, trying to keep the sensation intact. The candles were already burning low, and Sam wondered how much longer they were going to have to wait. _We should have put a clock in here. _

Then he heard it--a small creak from the doorway. He looked up, watching as the door swung open to blackness. He tensed himself, prepared for whatever he might see. A dark figure loomed in the entrance.

"Dad." The tension diminished into a smile. "You scared me."

His father didn't answer. John took a slow step into the room, his face obscured by the flickering shadows of the candlelight.

Sam's smile faded as he took in his father's disposition. "Dad?" The tension came back with vengeance.

His father moved forward, his movements purposeful, deliberate.

Sam's heart began to race. He couldn't think, he couldn't see, he couldn't hear. "Dad?" Something was wrong--something was very wrong.

His father approached him, now standing in front of him. John ran a gentle hand through Sam's hair, resting on his cheek. "I'm sorry, Sammy."

Sam's eyes finally focused. His father was crying.

All of the fears and doubts Sam had kept at bay came rushing back, and he knew. He knew, but he couldn't accept. "Dad, what is this? What are you doing? Where's Dean?"

John said nothing, but merely shook his head. He pulled something from his pocket, laying it across Sam's knees. Sam looked down, bile rising in his throat as he realized it was a knife.

"Dad, please." Sam's breathing hitched, the effort to stay calm nearly too much for him. _This can't be happening. _"Don't do this. Whatever you're thinking, it's not true. It's not real."

"But it is real." John's quiet conviction was Sam's undoing. Panic set in as he realized that John was not to be dissuaded.

"It's always been you, Sammy," he said. "You're the thing I'm hunting. You're the thing I've spent my life trying to destroy. You're the reason for all of this. I think I knew it all along but I just couldn't see it--I didn't want to see it--"

Sam's eyes stung and he pulled frantically against his bindings, wishing he had let Dean loosen them.

"It's you, Sammy. The darkness is after you, it's in you and this is the only way to make it right, to save Dean, to save you--"

"Dad - "

"I have to make it right. This is for you, Sam, you and Dean and Mary and your girlfriend--it's for all of us."

A tear dripped down Sam's cheek, and a sob caught in his throat. This was what he had feared, all along. That he was the darkness. That he was the cause of all the pain his family had endured. He had allowed himself to believe that he could escape it - and Jess had died. He had allowed himself to believe that he was hunting evil, not its source - but his father knew better.

Every natural impulse screamed for Sam to bargain, to fight, to escape - to stay alive. But one thought overrode every other, quieting Sam, preparing himself for the sacrifice. _Dean_. If, by surrendering his life, he could save his brother's, if by letting his father kill him, he could finally leave his family in peace, then he was prepared. He was willing.

"There's no other way, Sam."

Sam's struggles stopped and he held his father's gaze. Pain, fear, understanding passed between them. "I know. There's no other way."

His father nodded, and reached for the knife, grasping it by the ornate ceremonial handle. He looked at it, noting how the blade glinted in the light. He had sharpened it meticulously, preparing for the sacrifice.

John's fingers trembled, his knuckles white. There was no turning back. He placed a steadying hand on Sam's head, gently leaning it back to expose the long lines of his throat.

His vision tunneled, focusing in on the soft, smooth skin. The blade glinted in the candlelight as he moved it closer. The serated edge wavered in his hand. John was so close to Sam he could feel his son's harsh breathing. Sam's breath caught in his throat, as the blade touched the exposed skin. For a moment, John thought Sam might speak, might cry, might make some move to stop him, but there was nothing.

With one last glance, he looked into Sam's eyes. At first he could see the dancing flames of the candles, but beyond that he saw the fire as it erupted over Sam's crib, and he saw the blood -- Mary's blood. Mary's eyes were pleading with him, asking for a reason, begging an answer.

He blinked and the image was gone, replaced by the deep pupils of his youngest son's eyes.

He had his answer.

His trembling gone, he pressed the knife solidly against Sam's neck, pulling it quickly and deeply across. Blood blossomed in its wake, seeping from the straight line and engulfing the blade.

A soft gasp escaped Sam's lips. John took the blade away, mesmerized as the blood spread rapidly, running down the length of Sam's neck and dampening his t-shirt.

John stepped back, letting the knife clatter to the ground. Sam's eyes shone with pain, but his mouth was set with determination. It would be over soon.

Sam felt the white-hot slice across his skin, and then the sudden flood of warmth as his blood began to flow. He was lightheaded, overwhelmed by the emotion and blood loss. He could feel lines of coldness trailing up from his fingertips and he shivered.

He had never thought much about his own death. Not that there hadn't been close calls along the way, but he had always been more concerned about the lives of those around him. Dean's. His father's. The innocents they saved. He had never tried to imagine what he would see or feel or think, whether it would be instant or drawn-out, pain-wracked or peaceful. He didn't think about it now, either. He focused on his father, garnering what little solace there was to be found from knowing that finally--finally he had been the good soldier his father had asked for. Finally, he had found the courage to comply with his father's command.

He hoped Dean would understand. _Dad will take care of him. Dad will make it all right. Dean will be safe now. _Those thoughts calmed him, and reinforced his resolve.

John was surprised by the sudden flow of tears down his face. He had not expected it to hurt so much. Sam looked so alone, so dejected, still tied to the chair, his head hanging toward his chest, his life force spilling, draining away, unchecked.

Compassion flooded him and he rushed to Sam, grabbing the knife to cut at the ropes that bound his son. His fingers felt numb now as they sliced, working at Sam's feet, Sam's hands, and finally his chest. Sam fell limply into his arms, and John caught him awkwardly, lowering himself to the ground, Sam in his lap.

He gazed into Sam's face. His features were already white, paling by the second. He seemed to relax in his father's grasp, the pain nearly vanishing from his face. John choked on a sob. "Sammy...I--it had to be."

Sam took an uncertain breath, rallying his fleeting strength. His mouth hovered open, haltingly formulating the words. "I . . . understand."

Blood covered Sam's throat, soaking his t-shirt, growing in a sickly puddle on the floor.

His voice was breathless. "As long . . . as I'm alive . . . there's no . . . peace."

John held Sam, cradling his baby, holding his knowing gaze.

The blood poured fast but Sam died slowly. How many times had he tried to stem the flow of Sam's blood, tried to keep that life force within his youngest child? But as the life from within Sam was released, so was his power, his destiny, his curse. Mary had been the first sacrifice, a token. Sam was the real thing, the last sacrifice. John let the blood cover him, cover Sam, atone for the sins they had all committed.

Sam's mouth was open, moving as if to speak, but his words bled out of him before they were formed. But John could see the message in his eyes--a message of forgiveness, love, regret.

The look lingered and John stared hard, unable to blink, until Sam's eyes slowly unfocused. His breathing ceased and his heart stilled, and the sacrifice was complete.


	6. Chapter 5

**A/N**: Okay, so this is it! The final chapter! We would like to reiterate that this is a fic that has **character death**. That warning again applies to this chapter. We would like to thank everyone who has taken the time to read and review this! We've had fun writing this (though it was at times depressing). We would never actually want this to happen, but there aren't many happy endings we can forsee for this unfortunate family.

_**Chapter 5**_

Dean came awake with a start. His head pounded, and it took all the strength he had just to open his eyes.

"What - " His throat was tight, dry.

He brought a hand up to his temple, feeling the blood there, a mix of dried and new. _Dad. Dad - hit me? _

Reality flooded back to him and he pulled himself to his feet. He staggered down the hall, gun in hand, ready for the fight, his movements as frantic as his physical state would allow. There was a burning in his chest as fear - a fear he had never known before - gripped his heart.

"Sam! Sammy!" _Dear God, answer me_.

Too long - the hall was too long and it was taking him too long to get to his brother. "Sam! Sa - "

The word died on his tongue as he entered the room and saw . . . and saw -

"No."

"Dean--"

"What have you done?" Dean's voice was low, dangerous. He raised the gun, his arms taut. His aim wavered as he tried to discern what evil he was facing.

His mind could not grasp the horror of the scene spread out before him. His brother's blood . . . so much blood. _How could a person have that much blood?_ Sam's body, unnaturally still, unnaturally white, his eyes fixed, unblinking, on the ceiling above. And his father, knife in hand, covered in blood--_Sam's blood_--looking at him with a mix of guilt and acceptance.

"I did what I had to do."

Dean shook his head vehemently. "What have you done." He already knew the answer, but he couldn't admit it, wouldn't accept it, not yet. _Not yet_.

John forced the words out, knowing the truth had to be told. Dean had to understand. "It was Sam. Don't you see? It was Sam, it was always Sam. More people would die if Sam were allowed to live, Dean. I couldn't let him kill you."

"Sam never hurt anyone." His beautiful, sweet, stubborn, too-smart brother--desecrated. Broken. Dead -

_Not dead. He can't be dead. He can't be dead! _Dean could barely hear his father through the screaming in his mind.

"He killed Mary, his girlfriend."

Dean trembled. "Evil did that."

"It was always after Sam. That's why they died above him. There's a darkness in Sam. I know you know it--you've seen it, you saw it before I did."

"Sam didn't kill anyone--"

"But the blood is on his head!" John's voice broke.

Dean clenched his teeth tightly, trying to keep the tears at bay, hoping that something would stop this, something would change all that had happened. He cocked the gun, holding it steady.

"Sam is the catalyst--he's the reason."

Dean had heard enough. Nothing killed his baby brother and lived.

"It would have destroyed us all to get to him. It would have destroyed us all."

His father's entreating face blurred as the tears could not be contained. Dean's aim shook. He pulled the trigger.

Nothing killed his baby brother and lived. Nothing--not even his father.

John's eyes widened with shock. He looked down, fondling the hole in his shirt. Blood spread from the chest wound. He looked up at his son before his knees gave out and he crashed to the floor. He took a gasping breath. "It would have destroyed us." The words drained him and he crumpled to the ground.

Dean walked over to his father, looking down at the disbelieving face.

His son's face wavered above him. Dean's eyes glistened, betrayed by his emotions. "Don't you see?" His voice was like cut glass, sharp and broken. "It already has."

John tried to breathe, unable to draw in the necessary air. Panic swelled in him, his fear pouring out with his blood. He shook his head, his mouth trying to speak, to deny, to say something.

Because he saw the look in Dean's eyes, the anguish that knew no bounds. The same anguish he had felt when he saw Mary, pinned and bleeding and burning. And he saw the truth, the sudden reality he should have seen but hadn't predicted.

By saving Dean, he had killed him. He had underestimated Dean's love for his brother. He had destroyed them all.

The revelation came to John with grotesque clarity. He had played perfectly into the darkness, fulfilling every trap it set for him.

He shook his head, begging Dean not to, but fate was sealed and he had no way to stop it. As the blood drained from him, he finally embraced the emptiness he had spent a lifetime avoiding, he finally felt he wrenching loss of his wife he had never seen coming, the loss of his youngest he had carefully executed, and the loss of his oldest he could not prevent.

John Winchester died knowing that he had failed, that he had killed the only two things left that mattered in his life, and that the evil that had caused it had come from him and him alone.

Dean watched as his father died, unable to feel the pain of that loss, deafened by the weight of what he'd done, what he hadn't prevented. He wondered how he had followed the delusions for so long, how he had been so lost to follow someone so blind.

If he had opened his eyes sooner, could he have prevented this tragedy?

He had loved his father, he had trusted him and needed him. In that love, trust, and need, Dean had surrendered himself. He had let himself be blinded to how lost John was, how consumed by his guilt and grief. Part of him wept for this man who had loved so deeply that it had led him to demolish his entire family.

Dean had carried out his father's legacy, destroying the evil, and now he would bring peace once and for all.

He finally looked over to Sam, and anger twisted in his heart. His father's grief was real, but it didn't make this right.

He knelt carefully by his brother's side. The blood had stopped flowing and Sam's life pooled around him in a dark puddle. His brother's face was devoid of color, his eyes open and unfocused.

Shaking, he closed his brother's eyelids, unable to bear the vacancy where he had once known so much life.

"I'm sorry, Sammy," he said, running his hand through his brother's hair. "I should have stopped this sooner. I should have saved you. I promised you that I would always protect you."

Dean's resolve broke and he gathered his brother in his arms, lifting him from the cold, soiled ground. Pulling Sam close, he rocked him, crying over him. "I'm so sorry, Sammy. I'm so sorry that I failed."

His sobs overtook him, and he let himself give into the grief and the pain that he had never let himself experience. His denial had cost him so much, it had blinded him, stunted him. What he wouldn't give for one more chance to make that right.

There was no telling how long Dean sat there, Sam's body cool and lifeless against his chest, no heartbeat to echo back and match his own. His father's crumpled form lay still and silent, only inches away from them. Where there had been a family, once whole, and then fractured, there was now only one. In his cruelest nightmares, Dean had never thought things would end this way.

For all his years of pursuing and eradicating evil, he had never understood it as well as he did that night. Sometimes the greatest evil, the thing really worth killing, was inside themselves.

But his realization was too little, too late. He had known this hollow feeling before, the emptiness of loss that would only be filled with pain and more pain. He had known the kind of grief that festered, streaking the world around him in shades of darkness, pulling him down and down until he was all but lost. He had known this shaking, helpless feeling of impotent fury at God or devil or fate or whatever it was that had stolen something so valuable that it could never be replaced.

That knowledge paled in comparison to what he knew now. There was nothing left. In one fell swoop, he had lost everything: brother, father, purpose. He felt the cold dampness of the room seep into his bones and knew he would never be warm again. He saw the shadows growing, spilling out from the corners, and he knew there would never be light again. There was just . . . nothing.

It wasn't a conscious thought. The motion was too well-practiced, the sensations too ingrained. He barely even felt the cool metal of the gun that filled his hand. His eyes were as unseeing as his brother's as his finger slid over the trigger. The safety was still off and he knew without checking that all but one round was still burrowed in the clip.

All but one.

He pulled Sam close one last time, bringing his brother's forehead against his own. Tears slipped down, staining his cheeks and dampening the soft fringe of bangs that hung so delicately over Sam's eyebrows. "I'm so sorry, Sammy."

He let his eyes fall closed as he pressed his lips to Sam's. The tears threatened to choke him but he couldn't let go. Not yet. There was still one thing left to say, words that had gone unspoken for so long, but had been given voice in a thousand different ways, great and small.

"I love you, little brother."

He shifted, gently maneuvering Sam until he was cradled in Dean's lap. Reverently, he placed Sam's hands over his chest, positioning his brother in an angle of repose.

With Sam secure, guarded now, in death, as Dean had not been able to protect him in life, Dean lifted the gun to his chin. He dug the barrel into the soft flesh behind his lower jaw and sighed. Maybe, at last, the Winchester family would be at peace.

The gunshot echoed through the empty room. Dean's body collapsed against the bloodstained floor, his head just barely touching his father's outstretched hand, his brother still cradled in his embrace. The Winchester men were united once more.

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_**Epilogue**_

The room was silent, empty, devoid of life. Darkness slowly consumed it as the candles flickered out, one by one, melting into nothing more than mounds of molten wax. When their light had faded, the room cooled, solidified into a darkened macabre still life.

He hovered above them, looking down. The pools of blood around them had collected, coalesced into one puddle. It was no longer clear where one began and the other ended.

He had never expected it to be like this. He felt an unexpected jolt of pleasure in how well the game had played out.

They had become their own worst nightmares, each becoming the epitome of what they had never wanted to be. The father was the evil, the oldest was the rebel, the youngest was the good little soldier.

A father who would never grieve, never move on, never let go. A father who would rob his sons of their childhoods, their innocence, their futures. He betrayed both of his sons from the day their mother died, and had fulfilled his betrayal by killing them both with one slash of a knife, becoming the very evil he had sacrificed everything hunting.

An older brother who would never disobey. An older brother who would forever walk a tightrope between his father and his younger brother, cursed with the self-inflicted burden of holding them together. He betrayed his brother when he didn't see through his father soon enough, by letting the family he strove to link together fall apart.

A younger brother who would never understand. A younger brother who would pull away, resist, fight the fate that had been placed upon him. He betrayed his brother by being the obedient one in the end, submitting the only time he really needed to rebel, and forfeiting the very things he was hoping to save.

They killed themselves by their own betrayals, betrayals they would never understands, betrayals that had started 23 years ago when the mother died on that ceiling above the boy's cradle. And she, the first to fall, had betrayed them all by dying.

Yes, he had started this, but they had finished it. He had set the pieces in motions, but they had chosen to topple down on top of one another, one by one, until none were left standing.

He had never manipulated love so perfectly, turned a family against itself, and watched them self-destruct in the name of one another.

He absorbed their tragedy, basking in their brokenness. He lingered, watching the blood soak into the floors, watching their bodies stiffen and decompose, and knowing their spirits lurked in limbo just beyond the curtain of this world.

He smiled, nodding in sweet victory. This was his crowning achievement. There would never be another that ended with quite so much gruesome poeticism. He hovered still, reveling in the destruction he had wrought, the only witness to the end of the Winchester family.


End file.
